


In Sickness and Health

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Rope Bondage, bondage as a form of emotional communication, protective!shiki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Sometimes, the hospital is the worst place to recover.





	In Sickness and Health

**Author's Note:**

> happy belated birthday/ stab-aversry you lovely, twisted garbage angel 
> 
> thanks steph for beta-ing. i put you through a lot.

It’s a good thing that Shiki gave him a key, because he barely has the coordination to slot the key in the lock, let alone pick the stupid thing.

God, the security here is  _ terrible. _

But that’s okay, because the last place you’d look for someone theoretically hiding from the Awakusu is in the lair of one of its executives, so he’s pretty sure he’s good for now.

Probably.

Shiki’s got an impressive collection of booze, which seems extremely appealing for the first throbs of new stitches and rearranged organs.

No, wait. 

What did they have him on? Morphine drip?

Izaya considers. It hurts like a  _ bitch,  _ a distracting throb he can’t quite shut out. But mixing alcohol with morphine is bad.

Right?

No, it is. 

Mixes together, depressed breathing. Possibility of passing out. 

Much better if Shiki just has more morphine lying around. 

He probably does. 

Let’s see, Shiki prides himself on being ruthlessly efficient. Probably has a well-stocked first aid kit  _ somewhere.  _

Bathroom. Always the bathroom. Easy to clean, easy to hide.

No, wait. Morphine makes him woozy and makes his thoughts slip out of his grasp like so many eels. 

Too risky. It’s painful but he needs to be on his game.

Or the closest approximate.

He snags the prettiest bottle out of the liquor stash anyway because there’s the off-chance it might annoy Shiki and the smaller chance that he might want it and goes to hunt down the laptop he knows he stashed around here somewhere.

Until he catches himself in the mirror.

He’s a hospital escapee, he didn’t expect to win any beauty contests, but hell. He looks like he lost a fight with a feral raccoon. 

Actually, he looks like the feral raccoon that lost the fight. 

Alright, so step one is a shower, and Shiki has a  _ nice  _ shower. One of those gentle rain shower heads that’s  _ awful  _ for relieving tension, rinsing soap out, or actually getting clean, but amazing if you’re trying to avoid getting your stitches wet or fucking.

That’s the way it is sometimes.

He borrows a pair of Shiki’s pajamas, because of all the things he keeps here, pajamas have never needed to be one.

If he’s spending the night here, it’s not an occasion that calls for clothing.

But sometimes people find that shit cute, right? Wearing their clothes. Izaya would give good money to see Shiki wearing his clothes. Not because it’d be cute or whatever his humans get off on, but because they border that fine line between ‘form fitting’ and ‘publicly indecent’ on Izaya, there’s  _ no  _ conceivable way Shiki would be able to get his pants past his ass.

Either way, the soft elastic is far easier on his stitches than the denim of his jeans was, so win.

He thinks.

First he goes to find the laptop he stashed in the number one hiding place: the dishwasher.

For some reason, Shiki  _ hates  _ the dishwasher with a passion rivaling religious fervor. Hell if Izaya knows, but Shiki will stand at the sink and wash every single last dish by hand. And then dry each one so his kitchen looks more like a clinical, unused space than the warm, inviting place it becomes whenever Shiki cooks. But whatever makes him happy. 

After a moment’s thought, Izaya goes to retrieve his stash from the toilet tank. Is it obvious? Yes, but it’s also easily accessible and easy to hide.

But tucked in with the credit card and bank rolls is a post-it that simply says ‘really?’ and another on the ID that says ‘that’s the worst fake name I’ve ever seen.’ But there’s also more money in it than Izaya remembers and a switchblade he’s never seen before.

It’s enough to make a man weak in the knees, really. 

Ah, but enough of that. He’s got a job to do. Sort of. 

Yodogiri tracked him down somehow, but he’s pretty sure he can nail that one on one of the less than loyal members of his entourage. Nakura’s pretty weak-willed, really, could be terrified easily. 

But that’s neither here nor there.

Yodogiri’s out to kill him and Masaomi’s really failing to bring in any good information. Not that he expected much from him, but Saki should have been good enough at it. 

The pains of incompetent underlings. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. 

Or have someone equally as competent do it. 

He’s got enough favors curried with “BlackLeg” that it shouldn’t be an issue, and that way none of the traffic traces back to him.

Or he could ask Tsukumoya, but that’s just as likely to end up with dear, dear Shinichi ratting on him back to Yodogiri, while BlackLeg is frustratingly loyal. 

Ah, well. 

Might as well get searching. He sends his request off to BlackLeg, gets a curt “got it” in response before diving back into the Dollars forums to see what he’s missed. 

Surprisingly, there’s nothing about him being stabbed in the street. Not that he’s got a particularly massive ego, but he is somewhat of a minor celebrity around these parts and he did expect some sort of news that he’d been stabbed. 

Maybe it’s because he’s a god, and like all gods, people only pay attention to him when they want something.

Or maybe it’s because creepy old mean with cell phones have no idea what they’re talking about and Izaya really  _ isn’t  _ that easy to pick out in a crowd.

Whatever.

Just means that fewer people will be on the prowl for his life.

One or two other things need to be taken care of. He puts a charge on one of his more well-known backup credit cards for a hotel in Roppongi, then gets someone who looks like him to pay cash for a room in Hibiya. He considers briefly making a third dead end, but that seems a bit too much like overkill, so he leaves it at that. 

It must be the drugs or the exhaustion or his laser-like focus, but he doesn’t hear the front door open. He would have called out, he swears.

All he knows is that one moment, he sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and the next, Shiki’s holding a baseball bat in a way that could only be considered threatening.

“Calling back to our high school days?” Izaya says. Or at least tries to. What comes out is far closer to a mangled croak.

“Izaya,” Shiki says, not putting the bat down, but moving it out of immediate attack position. His eyes are sharp, and even if they linger on the alcohol, they take in the rest as well. “What’s the matter?”

“I was stabbed. It’s in the news. How does no one know this? There were police and  _ everything. _ ”

“You were  _ stabbed _ ?” Shiki’s casting more critical eyes over him now, followed closely by exceedingly gentle hands poking and probing. “Must not be very deep, if you’re still conscious and moving.”

“I’ve had it stitched,” Izaya says, and Shiki’s hands still. “They took me to the hospital. Bad way to spend your twenty-first, let me tell you. Hospital food is the  _ worst.  _ I was on the news, even. How does nobody know? _ ”  _

“They took you to the hospital?” Shiki repeats. “Not to Kishitani?”

“No,” Izaya says, starting to log out of his chatrooms and hotel accounts and forums. “Surprisingly, the general populace of Japan doesn’t know to call my underground doctor when I get hurt. Do you think I should get a tag? ‘If found, please call Kishitani Shinra. When that fails, calls Shiki Haruya.’”

“Kishitani’s usually pretty good about answering his phone,” Shiki says, not so subtly prying up the edges of Izaya’s borrowed t-shirt.

“Maybe if you’re a terrifying yakuza boss,” Izaya says, helping Shiki find his stitches. “He hung up on me! Can you believe it? I’m in the hospital, bleeding out, and he hangs up. Who  _ does _ that?”

Shiki’s carefully probing his stitches with his fingers. “In the back, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Snuck up on me in a crowd.”

“Do you know who did it?” Shiki’s voice is careful, controlled. 

He’s furiously angry, it shows in the way the lines between his eyebrows deepen and his eyes darken.

“Oh, yeah. He was polite enough to call,” Izaya says, leaning into the hand that’s come up to stroke his hair. “Yodogiri Jinnai.”

The hand in hair stills. “Did he happen to give a reason?”

“Not really,” Izaya says, trying to place why Shiki’s so keyed up about the whole thing. Sure, he’s been stabbed. Sure, he might be a bit put out if Shiki were the one sporting stitches. But it’s not the first time he’s been injured in the line of duty. It’s not even the first time he’s needed stitches. It might be an easy answer, but his brain feels about as useful as a soggy towel. “I think was just a dick measuring contest. ‘My information network is bigger than yours’ type of thing.”

“I didn’t think such things were usually so violent.” 

“Maybe not with those low-lives you contract to keep you updated, but for some of us, this is our livelihood. You don’t let your territory go without a fight, ne?”

“I suppose not,” Shiki says, closing the lid of Izaya’s laptop with a click. “Come to bed. You look like something out of the trash.”

“Like a raccoon?” 

“If you like.”

“I can live with that,” Izaya says, trailing Shiki like a puppy. “Raccoons are adorable.” 

Wow, maybe he does need sleep.

Luckily, Shiki’s bed is top-notch. Like a cloud fresh out of the factory. Ironic, because Shiki sleeps about as much as your average shark. 

Shiki curls around Izaya’s back when he lays down, arm slung over his chest to reel him back in further.

That little alarm bell in the back of Izaya’s mind goes from a merry jingle to the equivalent of klaxons. Shiki would almost rather have his fingernails pulled out one by one than cuddle. He will, usually after Izaya’s been suspended from the ceiling for a good hour, or might tolerate it for a while if Izaya catches him on the couch. 

Izaya grabs Shiki’s hand from where it’s on his chest and interlaces their fingers. Shiki only pulls him in tighter. 

What. 

Oh.

_ Oh. _

The Awakusu have had a hit on Yodogiri for a while now, haven’t they? Shiki probably thinks that this was some sort of ploy to strike out at the Awakusu’s resources. 

Izaya’ll let him have that. 

He falls asleep to the feel of lips on the back of his neck.

 

He’s not sure what he expected Shiki to do.

It certainly wasn’t  _ this. _

“Get up,” Shiki says, shaking Izaya awake by a shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

“Time to go  _ where?”  _ Izaya grumbles, but gets out of bed anyway, because even Shiki seems on edge and that’s a good sign approximately never.

“Away,” is all Shiki says. Now that Izaya’s more than two percent functional, he can see that Shiki’s got a bag slung over his shoulder, his normal white suit is missing. In its place is a pair of normal black slacks and a shirt buttoned all the way to his collar. If one didn’t know better, you could say that he could be any suit in Tokyo. 

Maybe that’s the point.

It’s confirmed when Shiki shoves a bundle of clothes into his arms, a dark wash pair of jeans and a t-shirt, with a zip-up Izaya’s sure he’s seen banished to huddle in shame at the back of Shiki’s closet once. 

“I have my own clothes, you know,” Izaya says as he hops into the pants that fit  _ all wrong.  _

“Sure. That’d be fine if the point was to be seen.”

Izaya huffs. “I blend in  _ just  _ fine,” he wants to say, but remembers a voice crooning into his ear that says otherwise, and he tugs on the shitty hoodie instead. It hasn’t got the extra pockets his coat has, not at all, and honestly, what’s the point if it can’t carry at least three knives and five phones? 

None.

Shiki hustles Izaya out of the apartment into a waiting car that peels off from the curb as soon as they’re inside.

“Oh,” Izaya says, propping his chin in his hand. “Am I being kidnapped?”

The driver whips around so fast Izaya swears he can hear his neck crack. 

Kine glares at Shiki over his shoulder. “I sure as shit  _ hope  _ not.”

“Hello, Kine,” Izaya says cheerily, “long time no see. What are you doing this fine morning?”

“Apparently being an accessory to a kidnapping,” Kine says.

“It’s not a kidnapping,” Shiki says, calmly, but with that fine wire of tension through his words that says he’s irritated. 

“Where are we going, then?” Izaya says, not particularly caring about the answer. 

“You’ll see.”

Kine is so mad he might rip the steering wheel out of the column. “You said this was for his protection.”

“It is,” Shiki says calmly. 

“From  _ what?  _ Other penises?” 

Izaya can’t help it. He’s laughing even as it pulls tight on his stitches and makes the muscles of his stomach ache. 

“No, from people trying to kill him.”

“Yes, daddy,” Izaya says, snuggling into Shiki’s arm as best as he can with the seatbelt in his way.

The car jerks forward as Kine stomps on the brakes, the lower belt digging into his stitches and it hurts like a punch to the gut. 

“ _ The actual fuck you been doing, Shiki?”  _ Kine says, turning around completely in his seat. Izaya clutches Shiki’s arm tighter as Shiki desperately tries to push him off with the other. “Why is he calling you  _ daddy?” _

“Believe me,  _ I  _ don’t want him to be doing that either,” Shiki growls, giving up trying to shove Izaya off. 

“Daddy gives me—” Shiki claps a hand over his mouth, which is probably for the best since  _ Izaya  _ didn’t know where that sentence was going. 

“I’m not taking him out of the city for nefarious sex purposes, I promise. It’s for his own safety, even if I’m regretting that decision more with each passing second.” 

Kine shoots him one more suspicious look before turning back to face the road. “I did hear that you got stabbed, Izaya.”

Izaya stops his mission to entirely cover Shiki’s fingers in saliva to give a muffled, “that’s right.” And shoot a pleased look at Shiki because  _ someone _ follows the news. 

Shiki rolls his eyes. Or his version of it, which is closing his eyes and doing a mental count to ten, before pulling his hand away. 

“I’m surprised you’re not going after them,” Kine says from the front seat. “It’s unlike you.”

Izaya gives a brittle smile. “This one’s a bit different.”

“Ah.”

That’s the last thing anyone says for a long time, as they leave the cramped streets of Tokyo behind, leave the suburbs that ring it fading into the background. They pull up to a tiny train station just as the sun is rising. It’s one of the older ones, the kind that probably goes a max of three directions. 

Kine gives them a long look before he nods at Izaya. He can  _ feel  _ the death glare Kine levels at Shiki as soon as he turns his back. 

Shiki just sighs deeply. No wonder the man looks roughly ten years older than he is, the world and Kine are out to get him.

“You know,” Izaya says idly, “if we were skipping town, you could have left the arrangements to me. It’s my business, you see.”

“I’m not skipping town,” Shiki says. “I’m going on vacation.”

“That only works if you’ve been on vacation before.”

Shiki scowls. “I’ve been on vacation.” 

Izaya really, truly, sincerely doubts that. 

 

They take no fewer than three trains to arrive in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Izaya sleeps on the first, head pillowed on Shiki’s shoulder while Shiki reads  _ No Longer Human.  _ He’d call Shiki pretentious, but Shiki actually seems to be enjoying himself, flipping pages faster when he gets to exciting parts and eyes tracking across the page consistently. And really, that’d just start another round of ‘can you  _ honestly  _ say that with a clear conscience, ‘Zaya?’

Which sounds excellent right now.

“Heavy literature again?” Izaya says, trying to find a comfortable position. 

“Go back to sleep,” Shiki says, flipping a page. “You need rest to repair.”

“Still looking for the meaning of life?”

“No, I’m looking to see what other people think about the human condition.”

Izaya can’t even open his mouth all the way before, “No, ‘Zaya.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to  _ say,”  _ Izaya whines. 

“Yes, I do. But go ahead, if your heart’s really set on it.” 

Well, now he’s gonna have to change it. But really, why talk about the human condition if you don’t want to hear about why he loves them? That’s like baiting a mouse trap with cheese and then being shocked when it eats it. 

“Do you identify more with the concept that all humans are intrinsically good or intrinsically evil?”

“Are they mutually exclusive?” Shiki says, setting his book aside and wrapping an arm around Izaya’s waist. His hand lingers a moment over where the stitches are hidden under his shirt, before curling possessively around his hip.

“Of course.”

“Trick question,” Shiki says. “There’s no set definition of good or evil, there’s only what morals we impose. And that differs from person to person.”

“‘It is absurd to divide people into good or bad. People are either charming or tedious.’”

“Oscar Wilde?”

“How’d you know?”

“Don’t play coy. You left  _ The Portrait of Dorian Gray  _ on my nightstand for two months.”

“Did I do that?” Izaya says, playing at innocent.

“No, the other mangy stray I let into my apartment did.”

“ _ Mangy?”  _

 

On the second train, Izaya plays ‘how many times can I touch Shiki’s dick before he catches on.’

The answer is once.

But that once leads to a truly excellent time in the grungy train bathroom, so it’s not a total wash.

The third train, Izaya contents himself with telling Shiki as much as he can remember from that one college class he took as a joke. 

Shiki humors him, putting his book away and everything.

“If you give monkey’s currency, they start their own economy, complete with prostitution. Fascinating, ne?”

“It is the world’s oldest profession.”

“Chimps have a better working memory than humans.”

“How do they test that?”

“They have iPad games.” 

“Like those brain-training apps?”

“A bit. How’d you know about that?”

“Amazingly,” Shiki says, sarcasm heavy. “I know how the internet works.” 

“Wow, really?” Izaya says. “Because last time I asked—”

“Let me rephrase. I know how to work the internet.”

“Ah. That’s a different matter entirely.” Computers are odd. Basically the same all around the globe. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“Hm?”

“Human weapons are generally all the same. All cultures developed bows and arrows. Spears. Most developed some form of sword and knife.”

“Maybe they’re just the most efficient?”

“Maybe. Did you know streetlights increase crime rates?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Izaya rambles about the merits of streetlights for what feels like an hour before Shiki hustles them and his duffle bag off the train.

It’s  _ dark  _ outside of the train station.

Not the dark that Tokyo gets at night, but actually pitch-black, a small island of light in a sea of the unknown.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Shiki says, “we’ll have to walk from here. It’s not far.”

“And if I do mind?”

“Then it’s going to be a very unpleasant walk for you.”

“Ah.”

It’s not a long walk. Maybe a half mile, if Izaya had to guess. They pass through a tiny little town with exactly one store and one bookshop and one bar, all closed. 

“So, what is this place?”

“The name was plastered all over the station,” Shiki replies, guiding the way with a tiny keychain flashlight.

“That’s not what I meant. And you know it, ne?”

“It’s a place to go.”

“There’s a lot of places to go,” Izaya says, “many of them just like this. So why this one? Don’t tell me you have an overwhelming fondness for turnips.”

“Those are cabbage plants.”

Whatever. It’s dark. He hasn’t seen a vegetable on the wrong side of being cooked since those dumb picture books.

“Too small to be a vacation spot,” Izaya says. “And you grew up in the city. Grandparent’s place?”

“Maybe it was random.”

“Maybe,” Izaya gives him. “Except that there’s only one train that runs here once a day. Not the sort of place to rent space out. And you seem to know where you’re going awfully well, even if it’s dark, ne?”

“You are far too alert,” Shiki accuses him, but it doesn’t sound accusatory. 

“It’s one of my many shining qualities.”

“Along with what?”

“Far too many to name.”

“Oh, of  _ course.” _

Shiki stops at the door of one of the houses a tad far out from the city center, but close enough to be convenient.

Shiki has a house out in the country. It’s so adorably cliche that Izaya has to literally bite his tongue, but Shiki glares at him anyway so possibly he didn’t do a very good job.

It’s as bare as Shiki’s apartment. The only thing that distinguishes the two are a handful of personal effects and the faint mustiness of unused spaces. There, next to a fake camellia, an urn has been placed so that it catches the sun. Over there, a picture of a women smiling out with a benevolent kindness. She’s pretty enough, Izaya supposes, but the real thing that keeps jealousy at bay is the clearly evident age of the picture, with the hazy quality that old photos before digital photos brought sharp clarity and the shape of the eyes that she passed to her son.

It’s not a large place. There’s a grand total of four rooms if you don’t count the bathroom, and one of them’s a kitchen.

_ “ _ What are you doing with a country residence?” Izaya says, throwing himself on the remarkably soft couch. “You’re a city boy.”

“And as a city boy I know it’s important to get away from it occasionally.”

“Hm. I don’t know, I’ve never been out of the city, I’m doing just fine, ne?”

Shiki doesn’t say anything to that, letting his silence speak for him. 

Well. 

“I’m hungry,” Izaya says, not because he particularly feels that way, but because Shiki clearly has no food. 

“I’ve got canned sardines.”

“No one eats those.”

“They were a gift.”

“That’s why they were a gift. No one eats them. I bet they’re fifty years old and have graced countless cabinets before yours.”

“I’ll buy food tomorrow,” Shiki promises, coming out of the kitchen to sit next to Izaya. “Let me see your stitches, the bandage probably needs to be changed.”

Izaya huffs, but rolls onto his stomach anyway.

“They’re healing nicely,” Shiki says, fingers probing gently around. “I don’t see any sign of infection. When do they need to come out?”

“Haven’t you heard? They’re the new type, they dissolve over time.”

Shiki just hums at that. 

“No, really.”

“I don’t remember Kishitani using them.”

“Kishitani is a back-alley doctor without a license that’s never been to medical school.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Izaya rolls over so he can see Shiki. “No, really.”

“Then where did he learn to do surgery?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

 

“Do you even  _ own  _ jeans?” Izaya asks, curled under the sheets.

“Quiet, young ‘un.”

“You’re not that much older than me. All the talk of cradle robbing’s getting to you, ne?”

“I’m  _ lifetimes _ older than you.”

“In terms of what?” Izaya says, curling around a pillow as he watches Shiki undress, bright ink over strong shoulders becoming visible. “Seeing the darkness of the world? Experience? I’m afraid our jobs don’t run in terribly different circles, Haruya.” 

“In terms of maturity,” Shiki says, kicking his pants away. He heads to the wardrobe, but catches Izaya looking instead, and opts to come to bed instead. Izaya  _ knew  _ he was a smart man. “In terms of loss.”

“You have to have something to lose it,” Izaya says, tracing a finger around the camellia on Shiki’s chest that he’s beginning to suspect has a deeper meaning. “So I’m afraid you have me beat.”

Shiki’s hand starts at his knee and trails slowly up his thigh. He’s apparently unsurprised when he doesn’t encounter Izaya’s pants, just keeps his hand trailing to Izaya’s stomach, up to trace around his chest, and back down.

Izaya spreads his legs in a not-so subtle hint, but Shiki just settles between them, continuing on his slow quest to apparently touch every inch of Izaya’s skin.

“Missionary, I see,” Izaya says, locking his legs around Shiki’s waist. “Unimaginative, but for you, I will.” 

Shiki lowers his head to bite at Izaya’s neck lightly, coming up to his ear to say, “Who said you were getting laid?”

And Izaya  _ freezes. _ “You—  _ you _ .”

Shiki laughs against the skin of his throat and Izaya smacks his shoulder, because seriously, what an  _ asshole.  _

_ “ _ I think it might be to  _ strenuous  _ for your stitches.”

“Which is it,” Izaya says, curving his back to press against Shiki until he’s pushed back into the mattress, “Is it too strenuous or am I a complete pillow princess? Can’t have it both ways.”

“I didn’t say it was strenuous for  _ you,  _ I said for your stitches,” Shiki says, biting down on Izaya’s shoulder gently. 

“Oh, well. Let me lay here and take what you can give me,” Izaya says, flopping bonelessly to the bed.

“I’m sorry, did you start doing something different lately, or…?”

“You’re impossible,” Izaya complains, trying not to shiver as Shiki’s mouth passes over his ribs. 

“I try.”

Izaya manages to remain as boneless as a gummy bear even as Shiki runs his mouth over his stomach, leaving light nips in his wake. Even as Shiki’s hands stroke his thighs lightly and he can feel the touch long after his hands are gone. 

It’s a bit harder when one of Shiki’s hands starts to poke and probe in a delicate area as Shiki hikes one leg over his shoulder and bends him in half so he can kiss him at the same time.

It’s impossible when Shiki starts to push in, slooooowly. So terribly slowly.

“Ah, there you go,” Shiki says, as Izaya’s nails scramble at his back. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Shiki says, kissing him quiet as Izaya tries him damnedest to bite Shiki’s tongue.

He’s not successful, maybe because Shiki’s on to him. 

Bastard. 

Shiki’s drawing the whole thing out, moving so horribly slowly Izaya’s not sure he’s moving at all.

“Faster,” he says.

“Not everything’s a race,” Shiki says, and he clearly was moving because  _ now  _ he’s stopped.

“You’re absolutely right,” Izaya says, “but getting somewhere is still the point, no?”

“It’s the journey,” Shiki counters, moving again, and still not terribly fast, drawing out.

“It’s the-- _ aahh.” _

“What?” Shiki says, playing for mock innocence as he draws slowly back again. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”

And he slams forward again.

“It’s really a shame I can’t see,” Shiki says into Izaya’s neck, warm breath playing in the shell of his ear, “I love to watch you open for me, like you can’t get enough.” Then there’s a tongue in his ear, and he’s not nearly as grossed out as he should be. Instead, it’s warm and it kinda tickles and is very pleasant and he can  _ never  _ let Shiki know. 

Shiki’s back at his throat again, though, biting and sucking at the tendons and it’s such a sharp pleasure, Izaya winds his hands into Shiki’s hair, tugging until Shiki comes back up.

He’s doing such a good job, he deserves a reward, ne?

Izaya can do lazy kisses. He can count Shiki’s teeth with his tongue, can seal their mouths together until the only thing they’re breathing is each other and get pleasantly lightheaded. 

He can do that until Shiki gets revenge, stroking him gently. 

Dirty cheating bastard. 

He can’t bite back the “ _ Haruya,”  _ that escapes when he’s shuddering through it, but honestly, he’s not sure he would if he could. 

Shiki’s back to the slow, barely-there rock and his fizzled nerves are completely fine with that. He is too, now that the constant pressure is a million times more than he can handle.

“You feel so big,” Izaya says in his best ‘fucked out’ voice. He’s not sure how convincing it is, but Shiki’s way too far gone to notice. “ _ Haruya _ ,” he moans, and that one’s not entirely fabricated. 

Izaya tries to arch up, but his stitches make a  _ loud  _ complaint that’s not the  _ fun  _ kind of pain, so he settles back instead and lets Shiki do what he will. 

Which is apparently  _ not much  _ since Shiki’s shaking over him and there’s a rush of warmth that makes Izaya realize that there was no condom involved. 

“Kinky,” Izaya says, reaching down while Shiki pulls out. 

Shiki’s mouth tightens. “I apologize, I forgot.”

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, feeling it run down his thigh, because it really is. It makes Shiki’s eyes darken as he watches Izaya’s fingers, even as his mouth is tight on ‘I can’t  _ believe  _ I forgot.’

“Well? You gonna clean it up, or…?”

Shiki disappears and comes back with a washcloth. Which is totally not what Izaya meant, but whatever.

“I’m still hungry,” Izaya says, when Shiki flops next to him. It’s almost too dark to trace Shiki’s tattoo’s, but Izaya’s seen them often enough to remember roughly where they are.

“You could suck me off,” is the tired reply.

“Sure. But that only nets me one calorie, I’m sure that it takes more than that to do a satisfactory job of it.”

“I was joking, ‘Zaya.” 

“Jokes are funny,” Izaya shifts, tracing the dragon over Shiki’s shoulder. “I’m renaming the dragon.”

“Again?”

“He’s not a Todd anymore, definitely more of Goku.”

“What’s with you and weird names. I thought he was a Killua?”

“That was in February. Come on now, keep up. And it’s not weird, it’s _ original. _ ”

“Same thing. Not all of us can have weird names,” Shiki says. “Some of us get stuck with the traditional.”

“Of course, spring-time,” Izaya says, not resisting as Shiki tugs him into his chest.

“You’re one to talk, voyeur.”

“That’s  _ not  _ what it means!”

“It’s close enough.”

 

Shiki is good on his word and by the time Izaya wakes up, Shiki’s gone shopping.

“Do you ever sleep?” Izaya says, stumbling into the kitchen.

“Sleep is for the weak,” Shiki replies, handing Izaya a cup of coffee.

“Sleep is necessary for humans to function.”

“There’s no shame in being weak.”

“If it weren’t for the laws of this land, I would have killed you.”

“You don’t have the guts,” Shiki says, sounding supremely unconcerned and handing Izaya an omelette.

“Where’s my name written in ketchup? What kind of service are you running here?”

“The kind that made food from the grace of his heart. But you can always feel free to make it yourself.”

Izaya has a ketchup-less omelette that day.

“What are we doing today?”

“Convalescing. I brought some painkillers, if you want them.”

“Trying to drug me so you can win a verbal spar for once? Not likely. Convalescing sounds tedious. What’s the wi-fi password?”

“There isn’t one.”

What.

“Pardon?”

“We don’t have wi-fi,” Shiki says, and his poker face would be flawless except for the massive devilish smirk starting to curl around his mouth.

This really  _ is _ a kidnapping. 

“But I’ve brought the latest issue of  _ British Psychological Journal.” _

Oh, bribery, ne? It’s gonna take a little more than  _ that  _ to keep Izaya from running for the hills. 

“And I have photo albums here.”

“What kind?”

The childhood kind.

There’s something like regret on Shiki’s face.

“Whoa, you’re  _ blank.” _

“I was a year old, of course I didn’t have tattoos.”

“Look, it’s your itty-bitty tiny little wee-wee.”

Definitely regret.

There are a million baby picture of Shiki, all carefully labeled in a spidery, precise handwriting that’s so different from Shiki’s bold lines.

_ Baby’s first steps, baby’s first haircut, Haruya doesn’t like the spider! _

Shiki’s little face is shining with so much joy and happiness as he looks whoever’s on the other side of the camera.

Whoever.

It’s clearly his mother. Even now, the love and affection and worship between the two can be clearly felt through the careful creation of the photo albums and the considerate care gone into their preservation.

Flipping through the pages shows a childhood of relative happiness.

Until the third and final album.

There’s an abrupt change once Shiki starts wearing his middle school uniform. Gone are the happy eyes that stare out from the page, replaced by the beginnings of lines that have etched themselves deeply into Shiki’s face.

The photo album is short from there. 

A progression of school photos showing the bags under Shiki’s eyes growing to truly epic proportions. By the time Shiki’s high school graduation photo rolls around, he looks ages older than anyone else in the picture. The lines around his eyes and mouth have etched themselves deep.

Izaya’s curious, but not stupid.

“It’s always interesting to see how fashions have changed,” Izaya says instead. “Only seven years later, and the hairstyles lost a lot of their height.”

“You went to your high school graduation?”

“I even went to my coming of age ceremony. Didn’t you hear? Apparently we made quite the scene. Several parts of the campus had to be re-done.”

“I didn’t. I have a life.”

“Rude.”

 

Izaya hasn’t had this little to do since he was seven. 

He should be getting bored anytime now.

Annnnyyyytime now.

But the drive to  _ do  _ and the itch under his skin that keeps him up at night and the voice that says  _ what if  _ aren’t at the forefront. They’re  _ there,  _ but they’re pacing in the background, content to play with the toys Shiki’s thrown them. One’s clawing at the mystery of his mother and wants a phone and internet connection to find a death record. The other’s playing with an idea of a step-father. The third’s sulking because there are a conspicuous lack of ropes around here. He knew it probably wasn’t Shiki’s Fun Sex Retreat, but this just cinches it. 

“Have I ever told you how attractive you are in the sunlight?” Shiki says from behind him, running his hands down Izaya’s arms.

“You don’t need to woo me into bed,” Izaya says, leaning back into Shiki’s chest.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Izaya demonstrates the next morning.

Shiki’s sitting on the couch and Izaya gently settles his dick on Shiki’s shoulder.

It does not go as planned.

“You can stop laughing now,” Izaya tells Shiki, who might even have real tears in his eyes he’s laughing so hard.

Shiki just shakes his head and keeps laughing and doesn’t stop for a solid hour.

Life is so hard.

 

Shiki sets cans on top of each other.

“Don’t you have a shooting range back in the city?”

“Of course.”

“Seems a bit far too come out here to shoot a gun.”

Shiki shakes his head. “Here for the fresh air, Izaya. Open space to shoot is a bonus.” Shiki comes to stand in front of Izaya, “What stance to you use to fight?”

“What?”

“You at least have an idea of hand-to-hand, don’t you?” Izaya nods. “What do you settle into before?”

Izaya settles into something with one foot in front of the other, left foot leading.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Left.”

Shiki puts the gun in Izaya’s hand, wrapping his fingers carefully around the grip, leaving one extended. Stacks the other on top.

“Fire when ready. Be careful of the recoil.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.”

Shiki doesn’t say anything, just stands far,  _ far  _ behind Izaya, which is totally unfair. It’s not like he’s never seen a gun go off before, give him _ some  _ credit.

The recoil is a  _ teeny  _ bit stronger than he expects, and his first shot goes wide, but he doesn’t drop it, which is a win. 

Izaya resettles himself, holding the gun up, and knocks the top can off. It’s not hard to shoot, really. Just a bit of hand eye. The hard part is keeping his arms long enough without his stitches giving a mini version of hell.  _ Honestly. _

He gives the gun back to Shiki when he’s done with no fuss. Sure, the gun is  _ shiny  _ and all, but give him his knives any day. He’s more of a subtly kind of guy, anyway. 

“You’ve got good aim,” Shiki says, and he could sound less surprised, really. 

“Of course I do.”

“Have you shot before?”

“No. And I don’t plan to either.”

“You never know what the future holds.”

“That’s what makes life worth living, so exciting. No idea what people will do next.”

“That’s what makes life so  _ terrifying _ ,” Shiki corrects. 

“And yet you wouldn’t have it any other way, ne?”

Shiki seems to actually be considering this. “I suppose not.”

 

For all his laughter, Shiki actually puts Izaya’s Seduction Technique to good use.

Something warm plops on Izaya’s shoulder, and when he turns from his (Shiki’s) copy of  _ Crime and Punishment,  _ it brushes his cheek.

Izaya sucks it into his mouth, because he is the bigger man. 

Metaphorically, that is.

Shiki makes a surprised groan, like he didn’t actually expect that to work. 

Take  _ that. _

Shiki gently pushes Izaya’s head back, coming around to be on the same side of the couch and just scooping Izaya into his arms with a small grunt.

“What, no couch sex?”

“There’s no lube there.”

“This is obviously  _ much  _ easier,” Izaya says as Shiki sets him down on the bed.

“It is,” Shiki says, walking back to his duffel bag and pulling out Izaya’s Favorite Toy, Ever.

“I’m so sorry I doubted you,” Izaya says, pushing up to sit on his knees. 

Shiki just hums, unspooling the rope as he goes. “You remember the safe word?”

“Psyche.”

“Good. Tell me if anything feel uncomfortable or pulls on your stitches.”

“Of course.”

Except Shiki grips his chin and looks him directly in the eyes. “If I suspect you’re uncomfortable, I’m stopping. If you tell me, I can adjust. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I forgot to bring condoms, is that alright?”

“I said it was.”

Shiki and his everlasting need to reaffirm everything.

“Alright. Arms out, forearms in.”

Izaya watches as a pattern weaves in between his arms, all the way to his elbows. It’s hypnotic, watching the rope flow over his skin. Haruya’s very good at this, expertly tying knots at intervals and periodically tugging to make sure nothing’s too tight.

“Bend your arms.” Haruya guides his forearms to rest against his chest. He can feel as a knot is tied against his back, before the ends pass through the knots around his arms. Again and again until he can feel a pattern forming against his back. Haruya ties it off in the front, before stepping back to look critically over, sliding a finger between the ropes here and there before nodding. 

Then he tilts his head, considering, before he reaches behind Izaya to snag a pillow. Izaya’s curious for the five seconds it takes him to pull the pillowcase off, before he understands. 

It’s sort on his face, at least, and does its job well enough, even if it’s not total darkness. 

 He can hear the bed creak as Haruya sits in front of him, feel the mattress dip as he shifts his weight. He can feel each fiber of the rope against his skin, can feel the pulse of his wrists in the other. 

He pushes his elbows out, just to test, and the ropes pull taunt but otherwise don’t budge.

Haruya is very,  _ very  _ good at this.

“You’re very beautiful,” Haruya says, like he always does, his fingers tracing the patterns of his handiwork. Each touch seems to leave electric shocks behind, leave hairs raised.

Izaya wants to say,  _ then take a picture,  _ but he doesn’t. It feels crass in the silence, and he doesn’t want to shatter it.

Besides, a part of him even believes it.

A hand drags lighty up his side, nails on skin sound like a whip crack to Izaya, though he knows it can’t be that loud.

He’s nothing if not through, hands stroking and caressing every inch they can reach. Lightly, so lightly Izaya thinks he might have imagined half of them.

“Lean back,” Haruya says in his ear.

So Izaya does, expecting to hit the mattress, but strong hands catch him halfway down, leaving his back bowed in an arc, ropes straining at his shoulders. It’s not unlike leaning off the side of a building, no sense of how far it is to the ground, though he  _ knows  _ the distance.

Something warm on his stomach makes his muscles tense, but Haruya just nips at his stomach and licks his way lower.

Lower.

Then--hands tug him back up. Izaya makes a frustrated noise and Haruya laughs, a sound that rumbles through the air.

“In a moment, ‘Zaya.” 

There’s a distinctive noise of a cap being popped, before Haruya guides Izaya forward to lay across his chest. It leaves his legs spread obscenely behind him, but he doesn't mind. Not when Haruya’s got clever fingers where he wants them. 

The care Haruya can put into the simple push and pull of fingers is amazing sometimes, the awareness Izaya has of every little movement. The crook of fingers, the slow twist. He can feel Haruya’s heart against his cheek and the in-out of his breath in his ear. 

But Haruya’s fingers pull away, trail up his sides. There’s the pop of a cap again and a wet noise, the rasp of fabric against something.

Hands rest against his mid-back.

“Lean back for me, Izaya.”

So, Izaya does. He settles back onto his heels before curving his back, trusting Haruya to support him. His knees skid on the sheet as he’s pulled a little forward, before something nudges against him. There’s a pause before Haruya starts sliding in, leisurely and unhurried.

Izaya can feel every inch as it comes, and it feels so much more than usual. So much fuller than usual. 

Slowly, Haruya moves, rocking Izaya on his hands. 

Izaya can feel  _ everything.  _ The press of each of Haruya’s fingers, the pull of the ropes, the softness of the blindfold, the slide of Shiki inside him.

It’s too much and not enough and--

His back arches further as he comes, muscles going taunt then slack, his throat burns as he  _ screams. _

Haruya gently lowers him to the mattress, unfolding his legs out from under him, hands gentle as could be.

Then he pounds into him, restraint broken and tossed out the window.

Izaya can feel the grip of the sheets on his skin, the slap of Haruya’s hips against his, the air moving across his skin, the fibers of the ropes, the warmth of the lights, the frazzled sparks of  _ too goddamn much-- _

Then he hears the startled  _ huff  _ Haruya makes, the rush of warmth.

There’s one last slide against tender skin, and Haruya’s out.

A tug against his arms and he can feel tension loosening against his shoulders. Haruya’s good at this too, unwinding Izaya from whatever web he’s got himself tangled in. 

Izaya’s arms feel boneless, they flop to either side of him and the light feels too bright when the blindfold comes off, and Haruya peers down at him.

“Enough energy for a shower?”

Izaya thinks.

“Bath.”

“Of course.”

Izaya doesn’t remember falling asleep in the tub, leaning back against Haruya’s chest as the water laps at his stomach and Haruya washes his hair, but he wakes up in bed anyway. There’s a warmth on his back and weight on his hip and he sees no reason to change any of it.

 

He’s certain it’s Shiki’s mother.

It’s in the shape of the eyes, the curve of the mouth.

She wears lines around her mouth and eyes, like her son does, but hers are different. Hers are laugh lines.

“Ito Tsubaki,” Shiki says, coming to stand behind him. “She was a wonderful woman.”

There are many answers to be found there. There are just as many questions.

“She seemed to love you very much.”

“It’s what mothers do.”

Izaya says nothing, and that says everything.

“Or I suppose what mothers _ can _ do,” Shiki amends, resting his hands on Izaya’s shoulders. “Come help me make dinner.”

“Oh? Am I allowed to touch the knives now?”

“You can chop the onions,” Shiki allows.

Izaya figures out why in the first five seconds.

“They’re just onions, ‘Zaya, no need to get so emotional.”

“Piss off.” 

 

“I’m going back,” Shiki says, five days in, sipping on coffee. “You can stay here, or you can accompany me back.”

“Why would I stay here?” Izaya says, making a heart out of his toast crumbs.

“Maybe because there’s a bounty on your head?”

“It’s fine. I’ll stay in your fortress of solitude. It’s equipped for urban warfare, anyway.”

And has goddamn wifi. 

“And whose fault is that?”

Oh, please. Like Izaya’s knives made a whit of difference compared to Shiki’s stash.

“Your’s. Obviously.”

Shiki snorts, but he’s smiling a little around the edge of his coffee cup. 

It’ll only last until the other shoe drops, so he might as well enjoy it while he can.

  
  



End file.
